Letters
by BlueEyes444
Summary: Letters from Dean to Sam, starting immediately after Swan's Song.
1. Day One

**Disclaimer: BlueEyes444 owning **_**Supernatural**_**? 'Fraid not.**

**Summary: Letters from Dean to Sam, starting immediately after **_**Swan's Song**_**. **

**A/N: A huge thanks to my brilliant beta, Miles333****,**** and to my awesome friend, Sparkiebunny****. **

**Warning:**** I admit, it does get emotional and quite dark at times. I'll post warnings when they come up.**

**Warning****: Emotional and talk of suicide but nothing graphic. **

* * *

Dear Sam,

I don't know really why I'm doing this, but here I am writing you a letter because you're not here and I need you to be.

I'm never one to do the chick-flick thing as you know, but as a couple bottles of bear and me sitting here at Mom's grave, getting wasted, makes me need to talk to you. This seems like the only way…maybe I'm losing it. Right now, that seems pretty likely.

I really don't know anymore, haven't known for a while. Haven't been sure of my sanity for a long time now actually, ever since…I'm not going to go there right now. And why do I feel like sharing that with you _now_, of all times?

Maybe I'm more wasted than I thought.

Anyway, it's been a day – twenty-six hours, fifty-two minutes, and three seconds actually – since it happened and I last saw you, and I don't think it's really registered with me yet that you're gone. Like really, _really_ gone. Because seriously, you can't be _really_ gone, can you, Sam?

You promised that in the end after everything was over that we would still have each other, that we would be here together…and you don't break promises, do you, Sammy?

Actually, you do. I'm not stupid. I can count on two hands how many times you promised me something and didn't follow through because you're a Winchester. We're good at lying, so I won't blame you there; Dad taught us well, didn't he? But I know you'll keep this promise because if you don't…never mind. I'm not going down that road right now. I can't.

I've felt this numbness ever since what happened and it hasn't hit me quite yet that I'll never see you again. Man, you know how bad I am with this girly stuff, but here I am, writing a letter to my brother who's gone. But I'm trying to pour out my all feelings, so stick with me here. What has this the world come to, huh, Sammy?

Lisa's doing fine before you ask. So is Ben. I love being with them, but really, it's not the same as when it was just us, us and the hunt. I'm not sure how I feel about staying rooted down. Sleeping in the same bed for more than a night is strange, but I'll get used to it, I'm sure.

Actually, I'm not so sure…so never mind.

Well, Sammy, I'm completely wasted now; the world is spinning a bit too fast right now so it's best if I head back to Lis–home.

Your brother,

-Dean

* * *

Dear Sam,

It hasn't been long, I think, since the last letter, but I can't tell exactly how long it's been. Time's been blurring together.

It's finally hit me. That you're gone, Sammy, and it's my fault.

I don't feel anything anymore, not since last night, just this numbness that seems to be everywhere. I think it must be the shock, I don't know.

It was last night that it hit me, while I was dreaming. Somewhere in the middle, I realized that you were really, truly gone and you would never come back.

You remember when you were eight and I was twelve and it was after that el comedor de hombre took you? I was so worried…of course, I never showed you that but you remember when I promised you that I would protect forever?

Well, I failed you Sammy and oh, I'm sorry.

Sam…oh, Sammy. I'm so sorry. For everything.

I'm so sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry.

-Dean

* * *

Dear Sam,

I think I'm losing my mind.

Writing letters to you, my brother who's in no place to even get any kind of mail, is the one thing that makes me what to get up in the mornings now.

It's been just three days since you've been gone and I'm wondering how long I can keep this up. This pretending that everything's fine, surviving instead of living…I just don't know how long I can keep this up.

Remember when you asked me to kill you? That was one of the worst days of my life. And you know what? I swore that if it came to that, you dying, I couldn't live without you.

I've been close…so close over the last years, but something always brought me back and it always had to do with you. But now I'm here and you're there, and the guilt is so strong that I feel like dying without you.

I know, it doesn't sound like me writing this, doesn't sound like me to myself either.

But it is, and everything I write is true.

And you know what, Sammy? It scares me, scares that I don't recognize myself anymore and that that I've come this lower.

It's three o'clock in the morning and I'm so close to the edge …would you forgive me if I jumped?

I don't know if you would…at some point, I'm sure I would, but everything's so screwed up anymore.

We used to be close and now as I write this letter, I wish in the end, we still had that bond we used to have before everything got so screwy and complicated.

Suddenly, I realized I didn't have the strength to stand and sitting here, I have to ask, was that a sign from you?

Now I'm almost positive that I'm crazy. And I'm scared, Sammy.

Me scared? I almost don't believe it myself. But I am, and I really need you here, geek.

-Dean

**

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**

Thanks again to C. who I couldn't have done this without! *Hearts*


	2. Day Thirteen

**Disclaimer: If I owned **_**Supernatural**_**, the brothers would have reconciled by now…**

**Summary: Letters from Dean to Sam, starting immediately after Swan's Song. **

**A/N: Thanks to my brilliant beta, Miles333****. And to my friend Sparkiebunny who is positively awesome. :)**

**Warning:**** I admit, it does get emotional and quite dark at times. I'll post warnings when they come up.**

* * *

Dear Sam,

It's been a day and twelve hours since I last wrote, and already I find it hard to breathe. Does it sound like me when I say that writing you these letters are the only thing that keeps me sane? I laugh now because six years ago, I wouldn't be sitting in the car, watching the rain come down, writing you this and pouring out my feelings. Six years ago, you wouldn't be where you are either.

I continue to smile, to laugh, to _lie_, to myself and everyone, _I'm okay_, to pretend that I don't feel like I can't breathe, that I don't feel like all I want to do is die, for Lisa and Ben and everyone else. And you know what, Sammy? Everybody falls for it, the little game I play. I guess all those years of lying have finally come in handy for something beside a hunt.

I have to ask, even if I know the answer already, does the hurt ever go away? Yeah, I know. Just wanted to check…because I don't know how long I can keep this up…I feel like I'm drowning.

I need you here with me, Sammy. Need you to pull me back because you're the only one that can. I need you, Sam. I need my brother back.

–Dean

xxx

Dear Sam,

It's been sixteen hours and six minutes since I last wrote and I'm barely keeping it together. I'm sure you know what today is…I do. Mom's birthday.

And I don't know how to cope. I used to have you on to lean on, to keep me from falling down, but you're gone and the only things I have left of you are pictures and that box you kept in the trunk. I can't open it…I don't think I ever will. That would be admitting you're really gone and as much as I know it now…

Do you remember that picture I sent you, your first month at school?

I found it today. When did you give it back? Thank you for doing it. It's the only picture Dad allowed me to keep with all of us in it. I don't think I could survive today without this picture…the only thing I have left of you.

Lisa caught me with it earlier. She didn't say anything; I could see it in her eyes. And it kills me. Like a lot of things lately do.

I love Lisa, I really do. But…doesn't she understand, that no matter what happens, we're brothers and we'll always stick together, through death, life, and whatever?

I'm not moving on, I'm not about to leave you.

Wherever you are, Sammy, please, send me a sign that you're still with me.

Your brother,

–Dean

xxx

Dear Sam,

Something's wrong. Really wrong. And I don't know what it is.

It's been fifteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes since my last letter and something's wrong.

I can't describe it. But something's really wrong. And this feeling…uneasiness I guess…it's all around me and I feel like I'm suffocating. It's everywhere, and maybe I'm losing it even more but…

You would understand, I'm sure. Because I don't and you were always better at understanding this kind of stuff then me. I really need you here to tell everything's all right, that I'm overreacting…because I'm scared, Sammy.

Something isn't right and I don't know if I can face it without you.

–Dean

**

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**

Thanks again to my friend C., for all the encouragement and support.


	3. Day TwentyOne

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Supernatural**_**. **

******Summary: Letters from Dean to Sam, starting immediately after Swan's Song.**

**A/N: Thanks to my beta, Miles333,**** and ****C****. :D**

**Warning: Heavy angst, dark.**

* * *

He stumbles out of the old hotel and into the rain as he clutches his side with his hand.

His hand is sticky with a red crimson liquid that he's grown so very familiar with, and he can't put his weight on his right foot.

Limping, he winces every time he steps down. Heavy rain has already soaked though his shirt and jeans, and his hair is soaked as well.

He makes his way down the street, and he can honestly say he's not sure how he makes it, but he does, and he finds himself at the door of his hotel room. In seconds, he unsteadily makes his way in and closes the door with a soft thud, leaving a bloody smear on the cream colored door with his hand.

He carefully gets out of his jacket, gritting his teeth as pain flares through his side. God. How could he be so stupid as to let that Wendigo sneak up on him like that?

Swearing at himself, he peels off his t-shirt, dropping it onto the floor, the fabric sticking to his skin, and white hot pain slices though his side.

He pants for breath and he's feeling really lightheaded. Stumbling, he makes his way to the bed that is in the middle of the small apartment, and that's when his legs decide to give out. He sinks onto the bed and lets out a breath. The pain's not as bad as before.

Probably shock setting in.

Swallowing hard, he glances at his hand, crusted blood all over it, and for a second all he can think is Sam, Sam, Sam.

He shakes his head, noting the blood that has seeped onto his pants and the bedspread as he places the keys on the mattress. He picks up a needle and stitching thread from where they lay beside him in a small basket with bandage rolls. Without a second thought, he plunges the needle into his side.

"_Well, before we go stabbing things into Cooper, we're gonna wanna make damn sure it's him."  
_

"_You're such a stickler for details, Sammy."_

"_No matter what I did, you wouldn't shoot.__"_

"_It was the right move, Sam. It wasn't you."  
_

"_Yeah, this time. What about next time?"__  
_

"_Sam, when Dad told me I might have to kill you, it was only if I couldn't save you. Now, if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to save you."_

With a furious jab of his needle, he finishes up the stitches, angry that he let himself remember.

He jerks the end of the thread off and it's a bit satisfying to feel the sharp, stabbing pain shoot through his side.

He puts the needle away and stands up, swaying slightly. He waits for the dizziness to pass before he limps to the small bathroom.

He goes to the sink and turns on the water, soaking a wash clothe under the steady stream of cold liquid.

He starts wiping the blood off his side and jeans.

"_You never told me this."_

"_I didn't want to scare you."  
_

"_Well, bang up job on that."_

Breathing heavily, he notices the white rag is now a dark red.

With a sigh, he rinses the rag and decides it's good enough for the time being.

He's tempted to check his ankle, but he's pretty sure it's just severally twisted.

Nothing he can't handle later.

He grabs a small bottle of painkillers from the counter and opens the cap, _and no, his hands aren't trembling._

He takes three, dry mouthed before closing and placing the bottle back onto the counter.

He limps out of the bathroom and goes back to the bed, eyeing the clean shirt that rests there. Grabbing it, he pulls it on, wincing slightly as his new stitches pull.

Tomorrow, Lisa will be back, he muses silently as he grabs the keys for the Impala and the hotel room keys from the bed.

He's not sure how he's going to explain the stitches in his side or the fact that he's limping.

She'll have a fit if she finds out he's hunting.

He grimly presses his lips together and grabs another jacket, checking to see if his notebook is tucked it to a pocket, and it is.

He can't think of that right now.

Can't think that it hasn't even been two months since S….Sam died, not even two months since he swore he would give up the only life he ever knew and start over….not even two months that he lost the only person he lived for.

Rubbing a hand tiredly across his face, he lets out a soft sigh then makes his way over to the door, sweat staining his face, his hair wet with a mixture of rain and sweat.

He hurries out into the parking lot after locking the door, and it's only after he's walked in the rain for about five minutes, he realizes what he did. Or in this case, didn't do.

He must be more out of it than he had thought.

It doesn't matter. It surprises him to hear himself think that but really, it doesn't.

Nothing matters anymore.

Not anymore.

Not since Sam.

At the thought of his brother, a sharp pain fills his chest, and all he thinks is that he needs to escape.

He makes his way down the street and soon he finds going into a small 24/7 diner. Not so surprisingly, he's one of only five people there at three o'clock in the morning.

He hangs up his wet jacket by the door after grabbing the notebook and pen he checked for earlier from a pocket, then he limps over to a booth and falls into it. Cracked leather that smells faintly of cigarette smoke creaks under his weight.

A pretty blonde waitress comes over and asks him what he wants and he grinds out "coffee" between the pain that stabs through his side and ankle and this physical pain he feels is so much better than the emotional and mental agony of the last months.

He opens the notebook and he flips through the pages of scribbled emotional writings.

His fingers itch for a cigarette.

He's never smoked before but if he ever has wanted too before, now would be the time.

It's then, as he places his pen to the paper, he see something out of the corner of his eye.

He frowns and glances and there he is.

But, no, no. no.

_Dead. Sam. Sam's dead. _

He's shaking, and he's every bit numb, and it _can't be Sam_.

But there he is….across the street. _Sam_.

He blinks and then, Sam's gone and…

Sam?

_Sam,_

_Alive._

_Alive._

_No._

_Dead._

_God, Sammy._

_I saw you die. I saw you die, and there's no chance you could come back, but you're really back aren't you?_

_Either that or I'm going crazy. I wouldn't be surprised if I was._

_I'm not sure what to believe. It was you. But, something wasn't right. I can't put the feeling into words._

_I don't understand it. You're back and you didn't come back for me?_

_Nothing's making sense…_

_And you're really back, aren't you, Sam?_

_-Dean_

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**Review**?


	4. Day Thirty

**Disclaimer: I don't own_ Supernatural._**

**Warning**: Dark themed, hinted self-harmed, hinted drug abuse, graphic injury, swearing, mentions of childhood abuse.

**Spoilers**: Dean's time in Hell.

* * *

_They're crying and begging and their screams are all he can hear and no, no, he did this for Sam and Sam's living and that's all that matters and he thinks he should feel the pain that the current demon is drawing across his body but he doesn't because he's finally found the switch to take everything all away._

Sam, Sam, Sam. _He feels a piece of his flash being ripped off and it makes a sickening wet slap on the ground and he keeps waiting for the pain to hit him, for the agony to spread over his body but it doesn't and he doesn't make a sound and he wonders if he's gone mad from the thirty-six or so years he's been down here and some reason, he finds that very amusing._

_His fingertips are an ashy gray, delicate like crumbling chalk, like ancient parchment and something about this reminds him of Sam and...Sam._

_He feels something warm dribble down his chin and he hears laughter and screams and he feels nothing, nothing anymore and Sam, Sam, Sam, he's doing this for Sam._

_He feels the hellhound knawing on his leg and a fresh wave of the the comforting scent of blood fills the air and it's soothing in a twisted way and there's something funny about that as well and he laughs, a grating monosyllabic thing, sandpaper on his vocal cords._

Dean wakes up with a start, silent and numb just like in his nightmare, a scream stuck in his throat, sweat tattooing his skin, marking his soft flesh.

Sam.

He's dreaming of Hell because he's in it again and this time, he won't be able to get rescued by an angel. Something catches in his throat and he can't swallow.

Cas. Cas. Cas.

Sam. Sam. Sam.

Lisa is sleeping beside him. Silence burns him and he can hear the screams all to well and he just has to get out. Get away from Hell.

He climbs out of bed, and he catches the time and see it's three (in the morning) and he knows he won't be getting any more sleep, if that's what you call what he had been doing for the last two hours.

It only takes a few moments to pull on his shoes, and grab his coat and he honestly isn't sure how he ends up at the twenty-four hour bar down the road because he doesn't really remember but he does and he's getting whiskey, or something, just anything to make him forget.

He absently traces the scars that line his hands and he wonders how it came to him slicing his hands with a knife every night just to feel again.

The whiskey burns and it's welcomed and _they_ should have been here with him.

He orders another and his hands are trembling, shaking, as they reach into one of the pockets of his coat and pull out a small bottle. The name is Damon S. Black and for a second he doesn't quite understand why he has Damon S. Black's pill bottle then he realizes it's his and how did it come to this?

He swallows three and the alchool chases it away and God, he needs his two best friends back.

"Rough night, son?" He looks over at the man who sits beside him and it's funny because they don't even sound alike or look alike but all he can think of his father.

_Dean's head throbbed and his vision was blurring and where was Sammy? A small moan escapes his bloodied lips. God. What the hell happened?_

___He remembered his father's clothes reeking of alchool. Remembered he had stepped in the way of a hit directed toward Sammy then he was pushed into a coffee table and it broke under his weight and then everything then slipped into a comforting black._

___"Sammy?" _

He turns back to the man, taking another sip of the alchool. "You could say that."

He orders another round and another round after that. Again and again and again and again without end. If there is a place where a circle begins, he would like to find it and he would like to break it.

His hands are shaking as he pulls the stack of letters from the inside pocket of his coat and damn it all, he just wants to feel something but at the same time, he's afraid to.

_1, 12, 17, 21, 16, 30. _

The numbers leap out randomally to him and has it only been thirty simple days since he lost his brother?

(Time has been lost on him.)

A bitter taste fills his mouth and he takes another swallow of whiskey and he needs Sam back.

He unfolds the blank paper that rests behind all the letters and he lifts a pen of the (clueless) man beside him and the words blur together and he wonders absently how long he can keep doing this.

(This surviving instead of living kick.)

_Sammy,_

_I'm in Hell again._

_You're there and I'm here, stuck living without you._

_I can't live without you._

_-Dean_

Reading over the words again, he thinks that living has never hurt (he's pretty sure it hurts) this much before.


End file.
